I could walk toward that vault: thin sky pulling in night, constructing
its horizon.
The crush of our last words beneath me is where I’ll start.
I fluctuate between wanting sound/ silence.
What fills me is what chases me down even here.
Soon I’ll want another season. To hear my name.
It is this pull toward another alteration.
I want to go only knowing you will still be
here.

The snow is piling up as we speak, or perhaps dissolving in the harbor.

I want to share it in letters with you: another way to locate in
hiding, to admit
I find the corners of your mouth fierce, with your attachment toDon’t

On your vacant wall, my first gift: map of Antarctica with its outlined
poem
sketching my desire in longitudes and latitudes.

I have two rules about us: Don’t ask for what you need; become
small, compact,
and easy to foldaway. Don’t start.